


Liminality

by alitbitmoody



Category: Actor RPF, Martin and Lewis RPF
Genre: 1940s, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 06:15:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11983878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alitbitmoody/pseuds/alitbitmoody
Summary: Dean gets called to Atlantic City. A Gothic sketch of a singular moment.





	Liminality

“Pack up. You got a gig.” Lou’s voice is short, without inflection. Any other day it wouldn’t put Dean off, but it’s 84 goddamned degrees out and walking two blocks to the corner drug store for a cup of coffee and phone call is still a lot to take in a jacket and tie. The least his manager can do is not bark at him down the line.

“Where?” he asks.

“500 Club, Atlantic City. Johnny Laird’s sick and Skinny D’Amato’s got a spot to fill. Your pal, Jerry, told them you might want to pinch hit.”

He tries to avoid facing south, because the door to the phone booth doesn’t want to stay shut and the reek from the Chicago River, pungent from the heat, keeps burning his nostrils. The drug store is behind the Wrigley Building and the shadow that lingers over it this late on a muggy, overcast day is particularly steep but brings no comfortable shade. When it comes to ratios horizontal-to-vertical, Chicago is as bad as New York – too many elevators, too few stairs, and all the girls seem to have studio apartments on the top floor. Dean hates it. At least the majority of the club venues are at ground level.

“How long?”

“Two weeks.”

He might want to. The gig at the Rio Cabana– extended from March to May, and then calling him back again in July – has been over for less than 24 hours. The coffers are running low enough that Betty and the kids are back with his parents for the summer. A pay check and an excuse to not go back and bunk with them is just what he needs. 

But.

“Which one?”

“Huh?”

“Which Jerry was it that called?” Dean asks, swiping at a distracting bead of sweat that’s broken free from his forehead and is streaming for his temple.

It could be one of two – Jerry Lester who, thanks to the revolving door of a gig with his brother, Buddy, he owes almost as much as the 500 Club would probably pay him. Or it might be Jerry Lewis, the funny-faced kid he knows from New York. The one who celebrated his twentieth birthday the last time they played a club together and has a habit of spending the loose change Dean would pool for coffee and backroom bets on milkshakes and candy bars.

“Fuck if I know. Does it matter?”

It would be nice to know if he’s going to be greeted with a hug or a punch in the face every night for the next two weeks, but ultimately it doesn’t. The kids will be back at school soon – Gail needs new shoes, Betty needs to help Ma stock the fridge and pay the light bill, and Dean needs a solid week without a telegram or an angry phone call from someone who wants something from him. 

“’Got a bus schedule for me?” he finally answers.

“Your ticket’ll be at the station. I’ll let the club and your pal know that you’re coming.”

–

Lou gets him a 9pm ticket for a twelve-hour bus ride. Late enough in the day he has plenty of time to manage the mile and a half walk to the union bus depot on Wabash, but also late enough that his internal clock – carefully calibrated after three years of touring to want sleep when it’s light out and peak energy when it’s dark – is thrown completely off-whack.

Staring out into the night gets old very quickly and Dean eventually manages to close his eyes, resting his face against the cool glass. On the rare occasion that something wakes him – his seat gets jostled, the gal behind him starts snoring – he lets himself glimpse into the void, unnerved that not even an outline of his face or a flicker in his eye reflects back at him in the glass. Not even enough light for shadow.

The sun is up by the time the bus lurches into Atlantic City and, even with the windows shut, he can smell the sea air over the gas fumes. More smells and sounds hit him as he de-boards, waiting for his golf bag to be jettisoned along with his suitcase; overwhelming after so many hours of just the droning hum of rubber tires on asphalt: sunscreen, cocoa butter, salty roasted corn, splashing waves, kids shouting. 

“Hey Paul!”

Dean grins, relief flooding him at the familiar voice.

Milkshakes it is. 

The skinny kid is a gorgeous sight as he spots him standing on a bench, grinning from ear to ear. He has to be sweating in the high school sweater he’s wearing – Atlantic City is even hotter than Chicago was with damp from the ocean nearby. Dean hugs him anyway, relief washing over him.

“I was hoping it’d be you. How’d you know I was at liberty?”

“I read about in Variety,” he smirks, grabbing the suitcase from Dean’s hand. “You sent me a postcard, you dolt.”

“Oh yeah. I did, didn’t I?” 

“Lions on the front and everything. Car’s parked over there,” Jerry shoulders his golf bag with a bit of effort, covering the strain with a smile. “Where’d you get it anyway? The zoo?”

“Art museum on Michigan.” It had been one of the few places in the city with working air conditioning. “How long have you been at the club?”

“Two weeks. Post-Fourth-of-July stragglers and beachcombers in the crowd mostly. There’s a rumor that Sophie Tucker may be coming to town next week.”

“Are you on your own?”

“Irving needs a little summer sun once in a while, too,” he smiles. “Patti and Gary came in for a couple days. I got to take them to the beach.”

“’They still in town?” Dean asks. He hasn’t seen the baby up close yet. A glimpse of a tiny face in a covered cot in New York was the closest he’d come before Jerry’s wife had shooed him out. It was 3am and he was making too much noise – the story of his life. 

Jerry shakes his head and his smile dims just enough for Dean to notice. “It’s just you and me.”

Gravity shifts. It wasn’t just about a gig – the kid was lonely.

The pain of that has a silver lining – he called him. He had thought of him. And Dean feels like a heel – something truly lowdown and despicable – because people reaching out to you when they’re miserable and in need is _not_ what people are supposed to want. 

But what the hell. He’s never felt much like “people” anyway.

He takes the suitcase from Jerry’s hand, leaving him with just the golf bag to carry. Sharing the weight. His free hand lands on his friend’s shoulder as they start walking, gripping familiar planes and angles.

“You should get a dog.”

Jerry laughs. “Nah. You shed less than they do. Besides, with my luck I’m probably allergic. My eyes’ll get all watery, my lips’ll swell up and my vocal chords’ll choke off for good.”

“You never know – it might help your stage performance.”

“Har har.”

Dean eyes the landscape as they walk the boardwalk on their way to the car. Atlantic City is a beach city with buildings assembled by nervous people wary of putting too much stress on the sand. Just the bare essentials – wood plank floors, four walls and a roof. No vertical jungles with camouflaged creatures lingering at the top floor.

It makes him feel like he can breathe again.

“Ready?” Jerry shuts the trunk, breaking his train of thought.

“Yeah. By the way, when did you get a driver’s license?” He teases.

“Same day I got my pet license," the kid smiles. "Get in, Rover. We’ve got a show tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> More details gleaned from _Dean And Me_ , and a few other articles on their career. I wrote this story for a friend of mine who was also saddened by Jerry's passing two weeks ago. Some creative license: the actual Rio Cabana gig ended in May, 1946. I liked the contrast of the two locations and the idea of a 12-hour trip against a Gothic backdrop.


End file.
